Your body is the prayer
I pour my clamoring thoughts into
and you see into me
like I am a transparent sea
no salt at all
the waves lapping
I want you to be the peninsula
and I the clouds reflected
on your sheets of glass
breaking me apart
scratching me back together
I could get used to this each other
My thoughts are your real lovers
Your sentences are my actual carresses
Close until all the fear drips away
Like drops of firewater
Swishes into the dark
Leave your mark
You are all I’ve ever wanted
What scares me is not love, or loving, but being loved. To love is easy. But to be loved? Is it really outside of the realm of possibilities? Science can create such beautiful things if it wants to. Genius is probable. What happens when, what happens when your limelight hits me, I pick a fight, and throw a martini in your face.
Intimacy terrifies me. To be naked is easy. But to be nude? When a lover told me I love you years ago my response was No you don’t. Love was all I ever wanted. But when I get close, through the gates, I runaway, like a coward, like a fool.
A fool is someone who runs all the way to Athens only to give up at the foot of the Acropolis.
There is no time left to be foolish when love, loving and being loved are at stake.
If you loved me you wouldn’t have let me fall.
But if I didn’t let you fall you wouldn’t have fallen in love with me when I caught you.
Across the gates
We will meet again
Through those gates
It shall be early in the morning
The sky not fully lit
You will be wearing my desire
I will be reflected in your eyes
You will reach your fingers into my chest
It was not
It couldn’t be
It is now a heart you’ll say
and I’ll wake up
like a swimmer kicking
off the sea bed
through the nine mermaids
and their four primary coral colours
You made me new
Make me new
I’ll say it simply muse:
you burn me
You brought your nine sisters?
since we are here
and we have your attention
since you’ve attended this soiree
the smorgasboard is organic
the words have been selected both with an artist’s fastidiousness and a mortician’s flair
all nine of us
carried by the wings of gannets
we arrived in the rain
me and my nine sisters
and you took us in doors
and showed us what you looked like at your most naked
in your naked poems
like fresh cut wounds
and we loved you for it
It was the way that you forgave Time
That harkened us
Is this a race Time?
Or do we need to hold
the mirror up to nature
a brand new way?
It is said that at the presence of history we discern its actual shape. It is a river running over everything, settling scores, closing circles, making what we loved, water. It was writ on water with love for my nine daughters.
In fact, Thames, you illustrate our perspective mirrorwise, and we are here to thank you for it. As artists one of our goals is to provide height, not only to observe history, but be a part of it. To take a nosedive is to activate the glossy nets. My nine daughters await you they and their fantastical bayonets.
Michelangelo took a slab of marble and turned it into a timeless work of art, that is essentially human, David. It is this transformation from ephemeral to boundless that we who look at art are looking for, we are hunting for miracles before our very own eyes. How art, how art creates visible immortality. We yearn to be baffled and filled to the brim. Were we empty before the Italian renaissance? We forgot our quills center stage but others have and will put them to extraordinary use. We are on the other end of the tightrope but we are illuminated from beneath and there are glossy nets as far and as deeply as the eye can see.